Meditation

Session 2

"Are you ready?" She asks me. She doesn't wait for my answer. I know she could go with me, but this time, I don't want to take her there.

And yet, as I stand at the doorway, waiting for it to open, I can feel the chill running through me, the pit in my stomach. Fear.

I could take her with me. But this time I won't.

I have to find what it is that scares me. I have to find it alone.

As the memory starts to break way through the mist, my body begins to change. I can feel the years weighing on it. I can feel a body that once held itself up so strong, so straight, so steadfast. A solid young man, tall and healthy. But I am coming to this memory at a later stage - this body has aged and hunched over; I'm resting my weight on a walking stick with unsteady hands shaking constantly.

I look around at the room. Dark wooden panelling, a dark red carpet, one cream sofa and two cream armchairs, all facing a very old tv. Something in the back of my mind says 1950s. I go with it.

In the cream armchair nearest the wall sits a bitter old woman, her grey hair permed, her lips pursed like she's just eaten a ripe piece of fruit. She's silent, save for the odd quiet growl/grumble as she shifts her weight, trying futilely to get comfortable.

At the back of the room is a quiet young woman, ironing clothes. She doesn't say a word but she seems happy enough. She's satisfied with her lot. I walk towards her to get a better look when something starts to pull me back.

John.

I turn, my eyes falling on the woman in the chair, and for a moment the years fall away. I see her vulnerable. I see her young and beautiful. And I see her waiting for some show of support, anything.

The bitterness falls away, a clear facade; I shuffle over to her, walking stick gripped tightly in both hands. I stand before her, unable to kneel, unable to really bend down, but my age proves helpful as I can lean over to kiss her forehead and stroke her cheek without much struggle. She looks up at me in shock. Tears form in her eyes.

"Evie,"

She takes my hand in hers, holding on for dear life.

"Oh John," She chokes. She holds my hand to her face as the tears begin to fall. I rest my chin on her head, soothing her as best I could.

The scene shoots forward. I'm in a sterile white room with an incessant beeping ringing in my ears. I know without looking that Evie's gone. She has been for a while.

And now it's my turn.

The ironing girl is standing there, crying quietly. "Dad..."

But somehow, seeing her there, I'm filled with a sense of peace. She'll be okay. I know it's time to go. This time I'm comfortable and I have someone with me. Someone good. I know she'll be okay.

I sigh and close my eyes. My chest contracts.

I'm at the doorway again, preparing to leave this regressive state. It was short and sweet, and, although I know it's given me something to think about, I can't shake the feeling that something's missing. There's another door to open. Another corridor to go down. I need to find the thing that makes me feel that fear when I close my eyes.